


The Most Complex Simplicity

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Collars, Coming of Age, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enthusiastic Consent, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Halloween vibes, Handwaving, Happy Ending, Heartfelt Conversations, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Bonding, Platonic BDSM, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Build, Spanking, Summer Vibes, Sweet, Therapy, autumn vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:06:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: Stiles and Scott have a routine when it comes to October, it started when they were twelve and has since become an unrivaled tradition: they gut the pumpkins, clean and cure and roast the seeds, Scotty carves the jack-o-lanterns (he's better with the hand-eye-coordination/not cutting himself at least eighty-dozen times and disregarding the wounds for far too long in his excitement thing), and Stiles whips up an extended list of autumnal themed foods throughout the month- because everyone in his life since his mother died is ashitcook; seriously, Melissa is terrible, Scott burnswater("How, bro?How?"Puppy-dog confused and vaguely wondering, all high-pitched childish, "I don'tknow?") and his dad. Oh, his dad- and by halloween both their houses have the most creative, artistic,badasslooking pumpkins, and thebestfood and homemade candy to hand out to trick-or-treaters.That changes, a bit, when Scott turns, their lives overwhelmed withliteralspooky shit, a constant, horrifying, supernatural shit-show.[Or: The one where Scott and Stiles deal with trauma, growing up, BDSM, and falling in love.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The tags are not in order but they're low-key important? Also, Autumnal Skittles fic!!! I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Content Warning :: They actually get into the BDSM aspect of their relationship fairly quickly, but it takes them a minute to get to the romantic relationship part, slow build tag is accurate. Also, nothing smutty really happens in this fic, kinky, yes, smutty, no. Happy reading!!! ♥♥♥
> 
> Trigger Warning :: Gerard Argent mention, allusions to the physical torture he put Stiles, Erica and Boyd through, it's very vague, but please, please, please tread carefully if this will be a problem for you.  
> Trigger Warning :: Intense Discussions are had throughout this whole thing. This fic is really, overall, lighthearted, but they've all been through the works, and some wounds need to be reopened, or, at least, _discussed_ , before they can properly heal, and that's a pretty big theme, especially in the second chapter, so. Just be safe, and do _not_ read it if you think it will be harmful to you. I love you guys!!! xoxoxo

Stiles and Scott have a routine when it comes to October, it started when they were twelve and has since become an unrivaled tradition: they gut the pumpkins, clean and cure and roast the seeds, Scotty carves the jack-o-lanterns (he's better with the hand-eye-coordination/not cutting himself at least eighty-dozen times and disregarding the wounds for far too long in his excitement thing), and Stiles whips up an extended list of autumnal themed foods throughout the month- because everyone in his life since his mother died is a shit cook; seriously, Melissa is terrible, Scott burns _water_ ("How, bro? _How?"_ Puppy-dog confused and vaguely wondering, all high-pitched childish, "I don't know?") and his dad. Oh, his dad- and by halloween both their houses have the most creative, artistic, badass looking pumpkins, and the best food and homemade candy to hand out to trick-or-treaters.

That changes, a bit, when Scott turns, their lives overwhelmed with _literal_ spooky shit, a constant, horrifying, supernatural shit-show. And their relationship, too, twists, curves in on itself, constricts and then extends like oil-soaked taffy, both of them still stuck together, but too far apart to reach with the sentiment. It's little disagreements at first, which all get resolved easily, but then it's getting distracted by other people, other things (Stiles isn't ashamed to admit to his gut-roiling jealousy, at least to _himself_ ), and then it's _lying_ to each other, keeping things _secret_ from each other, either to protect or to reach an end goal that, hopefully, keeps more people out of harm's way.

They're still best friends, by the end of the kanima thing, but their relationship is _rocky_ , and, considering the discovery of everything that goes bump in the night, considering what they'd just gone through, _everything_ , october- which was once, almost religiously their favorite month- just didn't seem as important anymore.

Never let it be said, though, that Stiles isn't stubborn, debilitatingly loyal, and entirely unwilling to let this get between them. Although, to be fair, he's the one who- after the whole Gerard torturing him and him completely omitting it thing- has been avoiding Scott. Not even entirely because he wants to, but because he's been busy trying to research this fucked world they've gotten ensnared in, trying to under-the-table help his dad- and through him, Derek, but let's not think about that for the moment- find the two teens who were in that basement _with_ him and went missing directly after- for all that Chis said he'd let them go- and because he was vaguely unwilling to go to either Scott or Derek smelling like blood and pain and antiseptic and whatever hoodoo paste Deaton kept searing all over him.

Thank god for the good vet, though. Like, Stiles is still suspicious, and wary of the _what_ , because he's decently sure the dude isn't human- he's also, annoyingly, enigmatic as fuck, talking in riddles that nearly make Stiles dizzy with their potently confident deflection; it's frustrating because Stiles can't figure it, and thereby him, out, and respectable because Stiles _can't figure it out_ \- but he's got an endearingly mellow demeanor, all sage and patchouli and ancient-calm, understanding, willing to tend to Stiles' wounds while respecting his need and want for secrecy, willing, even, to explore the whole _'spark'_ thing more extensively, since, despite being the _human_ , and proudly so, Stiles is also apparently _magic_.

The Universe, he's beginning to discover, really likes to fuck with them.

Still, after over ninety lackadaisical texts shared between them, and quite a few missed calls, a couple more long drives to avoid his house and school entirely, Stiles is scarred, but clean of pain and other pungent chemical scents, and, in all honesty, feeling a little more than lonely, so he heads to the McCalls, lets himself in as he is wont to do, unexpected and uninvited and nonchalant.

"Stiles?" Scott calls out from upstairs as Stiles takes the steps two at a time, the other boy poking his head out of his bedroom door, a dopey, half relieved smile blooming on his face when his eyes light on him. A glimmer of guilt swirls, ashen-pitch, in his gut, but he swallows it down with a tentative smile of his own as he paces closer. "It's been awhile."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, almost contemplative, before holding up the crinkling plastic bag—because he can't handle the idea of any interaction with his best friend being anything less than easy and natural, and because it was the only idea he had to ease them back into it; normally _Scott's_ the one who makes big friendly gestures, but it's more Stiles' fault than his that they're in the place they are, now- Scott has been trying to contact him and hang out with him for the past month and a half, every advance rebuffed—with the exception of the fullmoon, which, with both Stiles and Allison (in a completely friendly capacity) there, went pretty decently, Stiles was proud- and he wants to fix it, _desparately_. "Um, I bought Infinite Warfare, finally. You wanna maybe play?"

Scott's lop-sided smile turns into a crooked grin that brightens his whole face, hell, it brightens the whole _house_ , "Sure, man." And with that Stiles is clambering inside the messy room, helping him set up the xbox so they can play.

It takes a couple rounds for the slight tension between them to fully ease, and even then, there's a cloudy-murkiness to it that Stiles doesn't know exactly what to do with, a resigned, desolate undertone to everything Scott's doing that's, honestly, kind of freaking him out.

"Okay," he finally decides, forcing them to back out of the lobby and setting both their controllers aside, Scott going along with him easily, though his eyebrows slant in confusion, even as Stiles rotates his sitting position to look more fully at him, Scott mimicking so they're both sat cross-legged on the floor at the end of Scott's bed, facing each other. "I know I've been a really, really shitty friend, just _ditching_ after everything that happened, especially when you were going through a break-up and, and dealing with your mom's reaction to this new situation, and I have _no excuses_. Maybe I needed to decompress? I don't know, but it wasn't right and I am, genuinely, sorry."

Scott blinks at him a little, corners of his lips twitching up, something in his warm-earth eyes softening, melting down to petrichor and rain-drenched rich-fertile loam, "You don't have to apologize, Stiles, it's okay."

"It wasn't—it _isn't_. I shouldn't have left you to deal with it all on your own, we're best friends, and it wasn't okay. Can you forgive me?"

Scott bites back a tiny, overwhelmingly sweet smile, nods, exuding an aura of renewed positivity that makes Stiles feel giddy and light for having caused it, "Yeah, dude, of course, no question."

"So we're good?" Stiles leads, making absolutely sure, "Because I need you to tell me if we're not, _anywhere_ , okay? Because you do this thing sometimes- I _know_ you, don't even- where you let everything slide off your back even when you shouldn't. So, seriously, now is the time—I mean, these past few months have been _crazy_ , and I'm pretty sure everyone's made mistakes, but, like, I'm kind of an asshole, and when I'm mad or upset with you, I _express_. You _don't_ , not enough, even with this whole lycanthropy thing messing with your head, you're still so goddamn... _stoic_ —"

Scott snorts a little, though his eyes are glittering, watery, "Stoic?"

"Shut up, I couldn't think of a better word. You know what I mean. I need you to really think, and _communicate."_

"You sound like the guidance counselor," Scott points out, eyebrows raised a little with levity, and Stiles shrugs, unashamed.

"I've been seeing her."

Scott's brows knit, "You have?"

"Dude, after everything we've been through? I mean, when my mom died, I was _fucked up_ , panic attacks, this... incessant, constant, _explosive_ rage—the fourth time I tried to beat the hell out of someone the guidance counselor finally caved and told us it was too big a problem for him to handle on his own, and referred me to a therapist. It wasn't... the best, but it helped a little." Stiles takes a deep breath, rubs a hand roughly over the scrape of his shorn hair. "I'm self-aware enough to realize this supernatural stuff, this new lifestyle and everything it brings? It's... messing with me. So, maybe I can't tell Ms. Morrell everything," he waves a hand around, gesture all-encompassing, vaguely directed at the steadily rising half-moon, "but..." he shrugs again, "she helps a little." He inclines his head toward his friend, "Maybe you should think about talking to her?"

Scott quirks his mouth to the side, picks at a thread in his comforter, "Yeah," he sighs, indecipherable emotions crackling just beneath the words, "maybe I should."

Stiles gives him a moment, to let the idea sink in, and to work through whatever he might need to. "So," he murmurs, low, unintrusive, ignoring the worry tying his stomach in knots, "anything you been holdin' back on me, buddy?" Scott flicks his eyes up, shadowed, chews on the inside of his cheek. "C'mon, man," he presses, knocks on the other boy's knee lightly with his knuckles, _"talk_ to me."

Scott's face scrunches up, "It just feels... selfish, to still be upset over things that happened _months_ ago. And ridiculous. And stupid, because it was my fault, anyways. Besides, it'll just make you mad, and I don't want you to be mad at me."

Stiles inhales, deep, tempering. "I _want_ you to be selfish, Scotty-" even though he doesn't necessarily think this would constitute as selfish, he understands that emotions are subjective and fluid, and it, at the very least, feels selfish to _Scott_. It's a little annoying, he's not gonna lie, but he's going to respect it, anyway- "I'm _always_ being selfish, and if you aren't at least a little bit selfish, too, I'm gonna feel like a douche. Like a _Jackson-level_ douche. Save me from that fate, dude, _please."_ Scott huffs out a soft laugh, Stiles snorting with him before he sighs, returning to solemn. "And maybe it _will_ be ridiculous, or stupid, and maybe it'll make me mad, but if you're still ]thinking about it, it obviously affected you, right? I think..." he tries to keep his breath from hitching, but he's pretty sure he fails if the concerned, confused, puppy-dog look his friend shoots him is any indication. "I think I'd be so much more _devastated_ if you started to resent me for things I didn't even _realize_ I did wrong, or if I just kept—you know that Einstein quote? The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result? I literally _loathe_ the idea of unwittingly hurting you by repeating the same mistakes over and over again because I didn't know any better.

"As for whether or not any of," Stiles makes an expressive flailing motion, "anything is _your_ fault? I highly fucking doubt it, dude, but even if some of it _is_ , it could _still_ be a little bit my fault, too. No matter what, I promise you, it will be _ten thousand times better_ if we talk it out, learn from it, and figure out how to really move on. _Together."_

Scott heaves out an explosive breath, tuggingly running his hands through his hair, and, despite his anxiousness, he concedes.

"Do you remember when you got mad at me after Ally's birthday? For going off the grid when, now that I'm... _what I am,_ now that we're entrenched in this stuff, there could've been a _real emergency_ , and you thought I was neglecting my responsibilities and stuff—I mean, in the end, your dad almost got hurt, and I couldn't—"

"I remember, I remember," Stiles assures, first. Then: "And the mountain lion thing? It's... It was horrifying, that he almost got hurt, but I wouldn't have blamed _you_ for that. I mean, if he actually _had_ gotten hurt? I might've poisoned Chris Argent's oatmeal, or been more ardent about killing Peter Hale _as soon as fucking possible_ , because I am almost 84.9% certain it was either him or the Argent Clan, but I never would've put it on _you."_ He looks at Scott head-on, steadfast, earnest, because he needs him to understand that. His friend, honestly, looks a little dazed, and maybe just the slightest bit starry-eyed.

"I—oh. Okay. Wow, that's actually," he breathes, steadies himself a bit, "really good to know."

"See?" Stiles cocks a validated smile, flapping a hand between them, voice lilting toward vaguely sardonic, "Communication. It's a good thing!"

Scott huffs swatting his hand down and shaking his head slightly at Stiles' antics before continuing, a little less anxious about opening up, now, though the words still come haltingly, lip-bitingly stilted, as tactful as he can make them, "The—the yoda thing? I mean, I get what you were trying to do, and it did help me figure out some control—or, well, it helped me figure out my Anchor, but... When you framed me for scratching that car? And those guys beat me up?" Stiles is already wincing, would point out that he was the one who called the teacher, but a) the teacher was _Harris_ , it barely even counts, and b) he really is determined to let Scotty finish.

"Stiles," Scott murmurs, voice lowering, eyes wide and brows knit, grave, "what if I _hadn't_ figured out my Anchor? What if I... What if I'd actually _hurt_ them? Wasn't that just as, if not _more_ dangerous than what you were mad at me for in the first place? I mean... you know what I am, Stiles. I'm a _monster."_

"Hey, hey, no, dude." Stiles snatches up Scott's hands, wraps them in his, holding them as tightly as he is capable, breathes out a tremulous: "Tell me you don't _believe_ that?"

Scott's expression shutters a little, before he turns his gaze down to look at their hands, resting heavy in his lap. His fingers twitch slightly, but he doesn't move to pull away. "It's kinda hard not to." His face shifts, a slow, visceral change, fangs, protruding brow, pointed ears, glowing golden eyes and all, and, yeah, Stiles has seen him in all his full, furry glory before, but never this close, never in this intimate sort of context. Claws bleed over blunt fingernails to press in scraping points against the thin skin of his hands. "If I move the wrong way right now," Scott mumbles, clumsy through his new, sharper teeth, indicating their laced fingers, "I'll hurt you, if I don't force myself to hold onto my humanity—when I'm angry, part of me might even _want_ to. And it's easier, now, because I've _learned_ , but. But I'm _still_ something... _monstrous_ , aren't I?" His gaze bores into Stiles', even as his features fade back into human, those muddy, rain-entrenched, rich-soil eyes studying him, expecting rejection, resigned to it.

Resigned to _accepting_ it.

 _"Scott,"_ Stiles whimpers, has to struggle against the tide of impotent helplessness, a general fury at the whole situation, and an overwhelming, horrified guilt. "You are _not_ a monster. I don't know if my just saying that will _ever_ be enough, and I have no _idea_ what I could do to get you to believe me, but you _aren't_ , god, you're the most... It's hard to put it in words, but you are the best person I know." He buckles under a gasping sob, drags the other boy into a bone-crushing hug, "You aren't a monster, you _aren't_. You're _Scott_ , you're just—" He shakes his head, unable to get the words out, and Scott makes near wounded sound, arms coming up to wrap around Stiles, holding him just as tightly, pressing his face into the side of Stiles' neck, nuzzling with a high-pitched whine as he begins to tremble, wracked with his own sobs, and they hold each other like that, grieving so, _so_ much, comforting each other, grounding each other, and holding on for dear fucking life.

By the time their heartrending, tear-soaked embrace has softened to something less desperate despair- the two boys melting further into each other, half leaning against the bed and curled completely into one another's bodies- the little sunlight they'd had left has dwindled down to nothing, and both of them are lungs-aching, wrung out _exhausted_ , but Stiles, stubbornly, isn't willing to let it rest just yet.

"In retrospect," he whispers, rusted and rasping, his throat beyond raw at this point, "tying you up and hurling lacrosse balls at you, framing you for keying those dudes' car—" he huffs out a sighing groan. "It wasn't cool, no matter what my reasoning was. And, even with your healing factor, your pain is still important, I shouldn't have... it was just. It was petty and stupid and I shouldn't have done it."

Scott sniffles, nuzzles deeper into Stiles' neck, and Stiles runs a hand soothingly through his hair.

"You know... I don't really have the same... boundaries normal people do." Scott lifts himself up enough to give him a confused look, and Stiles offers a fleeting, complicated sort of smile, still running his fingers through the other boy's hair, the texture, waterfall velvet strands, and repetitive motion a greater solace than he would've thought, addicting. "I don't—I have the people I care about: my dad, you, your mom, Lydia, Allison, maybe Derek, on a good day, and, most of the time, _in that order_. When it comes to other people I just... don't. Care. That's my little cluster, _my_ Pack, and, as for the people who aren't in it? Their mortality, their emotions, I—it just doesn't _connect_. Like, I'm more upset by the fact that what I did caused you pain and distress than I _ever_ will be about how those guys might've felt about their car, I'm more upset about the theoretical consequences you might've endured _had_ you hurt them than I am about the idea of them _dying_. It doesn't connect the same way—I can understand it _logically_ , but how you're affected, how _you_ feel, is all I really care about.

"I think it used to be different, before—before my mom, but... I mean, normally, I can run it through my head: would this disappoint my dad? Would this make Scott cry? But it's harder when I'm upset about something, or..." He huffs out a tremulous breath, shakes his head. "It's just harder sometimes."

Scott looks away, eyes dancing with unhindered thought, before he rearranges them a bit so that they can look at each other more directly and still be comfortable. "I kind of always knew... that you were a little like that," he confesses, gentling a hand up and down Stiles' arm, eyes deadly serious, still so neverendingly kind. "But I don't know if I really understood, so... thank you for telling me."

"Does it freak you out?"

"No," Scott murmurs, immediate and unwavering. He flashes a small smile, the brief expression so relieving to see that the twisting, nauseous, nervous feeling in his gut nearly vanishes in the face of it. "Like I said, I always had a feeling." The smile quirks a little wider, half impish, something bone-deep warm glittering ephemeral in his eyes when he says, "Does this mean I'm like your moral compass?"

Stiles snorts, musses the other boy's hair just because he can, "Pretty much."

"That's kind of cool," Scott laughs, and Stiles grins at him, utterly pleased, a feeling of glowing contentment buzzing effervescent and bright within his soul.

"Are we good?" Stiles asks, and he feels so _young_ , small, held like this, asking that question, hope and insecurities still coating his every thought.

Scott looks up at the ceiling, and he's wearing one of those rare smiles that can only be described as the complete embodiment of _joy_ , sunny and blinding, _gorgeous_.

"Definitely," he says, in a completely confident tone that brooks no argument, before he's moving to crawl from the floor into his bed, dragging Stiles with him, and flopping down with a satisfied grunt when they're both positioned properly on the lumpy-plush mattress.

"Are we having a sleepover, buddy?" Stiles asks, half sarcastic, even as Scott's eyes flutter happily closed.

"Yep."

Stiles snickers, burrows deeper into his friend's hold, and decisively lets his own eyes shut, lets his mind drift until the susurrus of breath and the feeling of catharsis, of thousands of tiny weights being lifted off his shoulders all at once, lulls him to sleep.

* * *

Scott stares at the book blankly for a few moments, before repeating the title out loud just to make sure he's reading it right: "BDSM: An essay on immersion therapy and the neuroplasticity of trauma?" He flicks his eyes up to Stiles, who's got an arm crossed over his chest almost defensively, the other reaching up to his mouth so he can chew on his nails nervously.

"It's—" the other boy paces around the room for a moment, frenetic, anxious, jittery. "Platonic BDSM is a thing, and, if everything is discussed properly and done right, it can be a really, really _healthy_ thing. And—I think it could help us, both our relationship and in general. It's something we'd be able to _control_ , explore, a way to figure out what kind of boundaries we're comfortable with, and, for me, what kind of boundaries I maybe _need_. Scott," Stiles scoffs out a sound too self-deprecating to be called a laugh, and his scent twists a little bitter, "I—I think... I want to have something to—to lean on. I _want_ rules, a system—I want you to reign me in, to tell me when I'm going too far, because sometimes I just don't _see_ it. And I want something solid, _real_ —consequences when I don't listen, when I break those rules."

Scott gapes at him for a moment, stunned and a little floored. It's been about three days since their Big Discussion, and it isn't so much that he doesn't like the suggestion being made- if Stiles really thinks this could help him, help them _both_ , there's no reason to say no, especially since he doesn't feel any aversion to the idea- it's more: "But, dude... you hate rules, you hate _anything_ to do with authority."

Stiles snorts, walks over to sit beside him on the side of the bed, their sides pressed firmly together like this. Scott smiles slightly when the other boy leans his head on his shoulder with a short puff of breath, the wolf within him almost purring at the closeness with his packmate, at the way their scents are mingling. He kind of wonders if Stiles even notices how much more touchy-feely he's been lately, not that Scott's complaining, he actually kind of really likes it, it feels... validating. It feels like the physical manifestation of this perpetual unconditional love they seem to have for each other, their friendship, loyalty. It feels like a promise of constancy, and, more than that, it feels like _Pack_ , in such an intrinsic, instinctual, tacitly valuable sort of way that he feels almost selfish, for how he secretly covets it.

"It's different," Stiles promises, earnest, "it's _you_ , Scott. I _trust_ you, with all that I am. I wouldn't even be entertaining this idea if it were anyone else. And, if you don't want to do it, if it squicks you out, or it ends up not working out for me, then we can scrap it."

"So," Scott drawls out the word contemplatively, slings an arm over Stiles' shoulders, pulling him closer, flipping the book around and around again in his hand, "like a trial run?"

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, taps his finger on the book's hardcover to get him to stop his fidgeting and to punctuate his next words, both: "Read this, first, really think about it. If you're cool with the idea, we can try, and see where it goes from there, but I need your informed, enthusiastic consent, bro. I don't want you to feel pressured into it, or out of your depth—I mean, obviously, it's still going to kind of be a learning as we go thing, but—" "No, no, I get what you mean." Stiles twists his face up to look at him from his shoulder, the position vaguely intimate despite the awkward angle.

"I'll read it," Scott tells him without hesitation.

"Yeah?" Pastel-honey eyes fill with splintered hope, and Scott bites back a smile.

"Yeah."

* * *

Melissa doesn't know what she's expecting when Stiles comes to her at work to hand over a very healthy homemade lunch. She's surprised by the act, since it's the first day of summer and she expected him to be off living it up, enjoying the freedom, hanging out with Scott- the boys have been practically joined at the hip since they were twelve, to the point where their little one month hiatus after the disturbing _'kanima'_ incident was almost _scary_ , although they've somehow managed to become impossibly closer since- not cooking and bringing her food. But she's even more floored when, before stalking off to take the second helping to the sheriff, he orders her sternly to _talk to Scott._

She just doesn't know what to make of it.

But as she eats, as she works throughout the rest of the day, her mind keeps returning to it, chewing on the meaning, wondering at it.

And slowly but steadily, heartbreakingly, she begins to realize the _mistakes_ she's been making, in light of... well, in light of her son being a _werewolf_.

She remembers the look of resigned understanding he'd have, every time she told him Rafa wasn't coming over to visit, though it was always followed quickly by a reassuring, too responsible, too helpless, too _selfless_ , **smile**. She remembers that same look in the face of the young man her son has become, however morphed his features were, however _inhuman_ he may have seemed. Except, this time, it didn't tumble into that smile, this time, he turned away from her, because how on earth could he reassure someone who was looking at him like he was a _monster?_ When all he'd done, all he'd _ever_ do, was try to protect her.

Because that's who her kid is.

The little boy who overheard heated fights and internalized the word _selfish_ , used it as the foundation for all of his insecurities, who always, always felt guilty for things that weren't his fault, who watched his father drown in a bottle and become angry, mean. The one who, after the divorce, secreted away his own problems under something gentle-hearted, kind, sweet-stoic, telling her it was okay she had to leave him home alone again, always soothing and encouraging _her_ , reconciling and adapting and pushing himself so goddamned hard. The one who never wanted to become a burden, who wanted to take care of everything and everyone, find a reasonable, pacifistic solution to every confrontation, without ever running away, and without _ever_ uttering a word. The one who always seems so in awe of her, completely comfortable with the idea of being a _'Mama's boy'_.

The one who only ever seemed to let himself be a kid again when Stiles pushed him, and even _then_.

The one who she fought for, with every ounce of her heart and mind and soul, to protect.

The one who's a _werewolf_.

Who she _denied_ , and, then, when threatened, and scared, and conflicted, let be backed into a corner by a fucking psychopath with an anthropomorphic lizard. And, yes, maybe she rectified that later, but only by putting _more_ responsibility on him, and what has she done since? Just—what? Avoided the problem? Left it to rot?

She knows Scott- she _does_ , it doesn't matter one damn bit what species he is, he's her _son_ \- he overthinks and internalizes, he waits, and, unless _you_ open up that line of communication, unless you press and pry, he's not going to say _anything_. Even if he's in pain. Even if he needs you.

God. God, she is such an _idiot_.

(And, in that proactive, suddenly urgent vein, when she gets home the first thing she does is drag Scott into a hug and say, explicitly, earnestly, and candidly: "You are my beautiful werewolf son, and I love you, no matter what I will _always_ love you. I want to be the type of mom who can say I would move heaven and earth for my kid—I'm really, _really_ sorry I _didn't_ when I had the chance. And I'm sorry... I'm sorry it took me so long to _accept_ this, to—to—"

"Mom," Scott croaks, young and small and terrified and yearning in a way that makes her heart _ache_ as he folds further into her, so, so trusting. The guilt is nearly overwhelming.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, water-logged and quiet, but stern, before she pats his back and pulls back a little. "Alright," she decides, sniffs, nods once, sharp, "tell me everything."

(She's decently sure he won't, honestly, she doesn't know if he _ever_ will, but whatever they get through today will be a _start_ , and, hopefully, that will be enough.))

* * *

They've come up with something of a system, a rulebook, a certain way of communication, punishments for _breaking_ the rules are different than the things they do to decompress and recalibrate. And, mostly, it's Stiles knowing what behavior he shouldn't adhere to and what behavior he should, it's... having someone he can trust and rely on to not only be in control of that, but certain other things, like computer time and magical training with Deaton time and, _Stiles, I know that you get hyperfocused but you still need to **eat** and **take care of yourself** , dude_—letting Scott take care of him, is- more than he'd even considered when he first brought this up- such a fucking _relief_.

And it helps, too, that Scott was so uncompromising about positive reinforcement.

Who knew that kneeling at someone's feet while they fed you fruit and petted your hair and called you _good_ could be so... pleasing? satisfying? exhilarating?

They're still figuring it out, working through what makes them most comfortable, happy, and what gives them the most benefit, working through what rules and punishments and communication tools work and what don't. There's a lot more trial and error and researching involved than you'd think, and it's not as if what they're doing is very _conventional_. But they process, and they try things, and they _learn_.

Not just about how to traverse their new relationship, either, because apparently Stiles' suggestion to Scott's mom worked out better than he could've predicted, and, despite the supernatural lifestyle they're in, now- for all that it's lying low for the moment- there's still highschool, still normal, banal teenage boy shit to deal with.

Believe it or not, Stiles spends half the day hanging out near BHHS waiting for Scott to finish his summer school classes, the other half badgering Deaton for more lessons or more books or, in general, something to do, while Scott's working (if he gets too jittery, Scott blindfolds him and puts him in the petting/playroom with the mama cats and their kittens, orders him to stay put, buys him curly fries, a milkshake and a burger if he manages until the end of Scott's shift, calls him a good boy with enough pride in his eyes to make Stiles _melt_ ), and the rest helping Scott study or helping him go through his finances since he's currently trying to save for a bike and he's _terrible_ at math, or cooking dinner for the McCall/Stilinski households, or, a few times, made to meditate (which is basically the absolute _worst_ for him, sitting still for long periods of time trying to empty his ADHD addled brain, and is honestly more of a non-isolating- since isolation is very much a hard-limit for him, they found that out the hard way- form of time-out), and, on one very special occasion, handcuffed to the radiator—both as a way to commemmorate the thing he did that one fullmoon that turned out to be not only a lesson in futility, as well as mildly catty (for all that, _mostly_ , his intentions were good), but also as a way to settle and... _correct_ certain behavior.

It had been barely halfway through the beginning of summer when Allison and Scott agreed not to maintain contact during the vacation to france her father was taking her on, she needed space, he needed to let his heart break properly and let go of hopes of them getting back together, and she really needed time to grieve, mourn her mother and accept the culture-shock of the supernatural, the knowledge of what she's capable of, when pushed to her breaking point. Which, essentially means, that for the first fullmoon without her Stiles had been nail-bitingly _worried_.

("You really shouldn't be," Scott had told him. "My Anchor's not _just_ Allison; it's _Pack,"_ he'd shrugged, like it wasn't the biggest fucking revelation in the world, "love.")

But everything's been working out, if anything, with this new _Scott McCall betterment program_ , with him talking to Ms. Morrell regularly and patching things up with his mom, with their relationship evolving, becoming tighter knit and allowing them both to flourish within it- because Scott is taking to being a dom like a duck takes to water, and it _helps_ him, nearly as much as it helps _Stiles_ \- his control has only gotten better. Like, at this point, Stiles isn't sure _Derek_ would be up to snuff, comparatively.

He's sitting on Scott's bed, back slumped against the wall and knees pulled up to help him anchor the psp he's playing on his legs, waiting for the other boy to come home from grocery shopping. Melissa left for an afternoon/night shift at the hospital about an hour ago, and his dad has been working non-stop recently—Stiles knows why, but he's trying to avoid thinking about it. Derek's been more prickly about contact, lately, for all that Stiles and Scott _have_ been trying to help him with finding Erica and Boyd, he's just been _distant_ , which isn't entirely out of character for him, and Isaac, who's been living with Derek but comes over occasionally to hang out despite the tumultuousness of everything, seems to think things are the same approximation of fine as usual, so either he's lying, or Derek's just being _Derek_.

He makes a frustrated noise when the constant churn of his thoughts distracts him from his game, and he gets blindsided by a berserker.

"Hey, Stiles?" Scott's voice comes from downstairs along with the clambering sounds of the McCalls' front door opening, "Could you help me with these?"

For the sake of laziness, Stiles groans a little in whining protest, even though he's already setting aside the psp to jog toward the task.

It takes ten minutes longer to get the groceries all inside and in their homes than it probably should because Stiles keeps distracting the whole process just to do random silly things that make Scott laugh, but when the chore _does_ get done, they're both sweating and giggling and lamenting the broken ac, because fuck if it's not hot. Stiles snatches the pitcher of sweet iced-tea he'd made earlier from the fridge and pours them both a cup while Scott goes back to his mom's car to retrieve the last bag.

"I've got something for you," the other boy grins dopily as he comes inside, shutting the door after him and locking it as a mere afterthought.

"So have I," Stiles points out, caressing his cheek with the condensation-cool on his glass, humming with the relief of it as he hands Scott's over. The cup is gentled from his palm and replaced with a sleek, black leather gift-box with an air of excited anticipation, and Stiles' eyebrows knit, eyes flicking from the thing to Scott, questioning.

"Think of it as an early birthday present," comes the joyful explanation, Scott trying, and failing, to keep himself from looking too impatient-happy, and Stiles huffs a soft laugh as he sets his sweet tea down on the coffee table to give the box his full attention.

"If I remember correctly, _you're_ the summer child, _I'm_ the autumn—" his words stutter to a halt when pulling the box-lid off reveals a collar, two strips of sanguine leather with a velvet-fluff inner lining to allow for comfort held together at the middle by a polished silver ring, simple, not too thick, and though the color is striking and it's likely to be noticed, it could easily be played off as a creatively styled choker instead of what it actually is: a physical manifestation of more than he could ever put into words, something sweet, a sugar-coated, comforting representation of _safety_ , of dominance and submission, of his ability to trust in and _love_ another person so completely, of something that's become integral to their relationship in such a short amount of time, integral to _him_.

He's talked about the idea of it before, how appealing it was to him, but he never expected— he—

The noise he makes, then, is split between exhilarated awe and the beginnings of an overwhelmed sob as he jumps on Scott with a hug that bowls them both over, wrapped around his best friend like a limpet as Scott laughs delightedly, the way they're heaped on top of each other allowing him to feel the deep reverberation of the sound all the way to his _toes_. "You like it?"

"Fuck you," Stiles says, first, _wetly_ , because his body decided the best way to show his utter and complete appreciation was to turn on the water-works. "I love it, I _love_ it, Jesus. But fuck you."

Scott just keeps laughing, wraps his arms around the small of Stiles' back to hold onto him tightly, close, cocooned, nuzzling at his neck, just under his chin.

"I love you," Stiles murmurs, clinging, cuddling, and Scott returns the sentiment in kind, a tender, low-timbre coo that flutters like dragonflies from his lips into Stiles' heart, their wings sun-soaked stained-glass tapestries of such ethereal-fey beauty that it almost aches, to _have_ that, to be able to hold onto such a delicate, spring-meadow bloom feeling.

He allows himself a moment to get a little more used to it, a moment to _breathe_ , before he lifts himself off of Scott's chest so he's straddling him more than anything, the wolf's hands sliding to his hips as he cocks his head and makes a slightly inquisitive noise. Stiles' heartbeat- which he's been told more than once by many of the werewolves in his life has an uncharacteristically fast resting rate- speeds up, and he swallows, searches his best friend's face breathlessly, slides his hands up his torso, neck, adorably uneven jaw, to cup his cheeks, the motion causing the other boy to smile, unsure but _dazzling_ , a little confused, but helplessly, gorgeously, sunshine-sugar happy anyway.

"I want to kiss you," Stiles breathes, twisted at the edges with insecurity, worry making his voice wobble dangerously, the pit-fall poisonous dread digging its' claws into his stomach that he's ruining everything doing this, asking this, but he can't stop the words; they bubble, force themselves past his lips, pop in the air and sprinkle stardust on a boy already too goddamn angelic for his own good. "Can I kiss you?"

Scott's eyes widen, and his mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments, his face soft and open, caring and trusting and intimately vulnerable, irises all rain-soaked loam, earthy and drenched in something rich, affectionate, eyebrows curled up with surprise.

Stiles swallows again, flashes a smile, cheeks warm with something embarrassed, but content, still wet from the explosion of emotion earlier. He brushes his thumbs across the plains of Scott's cheekbones, whispers, meaning it in every possible sense, "You can say no."

Scott's face turns down a little at that, and Stiles can almost hear the gears turning in his head. He waits it out, for all that patience isn't really in his nature, this is _important_. Finally, after endless minutes Scott sighs, pushes off the floor to pull Stiles firmly into his hold again, secure and comforting-warmth.

"Can I think about it?" Scott murmurs, earnest in a way that always has and probably always will tug at Stiles' heartstrings. He smiles into the boy's shoulder, somehow feels a wave of tranquil-calm, even if there's a deep-ache of disappointment under it, because there's a chance _'can I think about it'_ might turn into _'it's just not possible'_ , but... but that's _okay_. There's this tendril of... of _relief_ , because he knows, he _knows_ , even if his newly realized feelings do get truly rejected, it isn't going to change anything, they're still going to be best friends, they're still going to be _this_ , and, honestly, no matter what, he can be confident that he'll always have his...

He'll always have _Scott_.

It's bittersweet, and his throat is tight, new tears with a different kind of weight tumbling down his cheeks, but he's still some kind of melancholy happy, he's still smiling. It's an odd sort of emotion, like rainy days and old romantic literature, an unfocused focus with a middle sort of ambiance.

He is in love with his best friend, and it feels sorrowful happy. A good kind of heartache.

With a sniffle and a soft chuckle, he pulls away from the embrace, offers Scott a wide, dimpled grin, coated in candied serenity and acceptance, the rivers running from his eyes helpless, but hopeful. Scott grins back, the depth of emotion there overwhelming and empathetic and _lovely_.

Stiles tilts his head toward the still open gift-box on the coffee table, smile melting down a little, but maintaining it's effervescence easily. "Wanna help me put it on?"

Scott's grin widens, eyes crinkling with understanding and an indestructible fondness that nearly makes Stiles' breath hitch. "Yeah."

The feel of the collar, he finds, is just as complex as the feeling suffused in his heart. And he absolutely _adores_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning :: Explicit shock, and panic attack is shown, if that's triggering, please, please beware. Also, emetophobia sufferers, vomiting happens in this chapter, though I try to keep it vague.  
> Trigger Warning :: Kate Argent mention, allusions to the rapey things she did to Der and others, it's decently vague, but please, please, please tread carefully if this will be a problem for you.  
> Trigger Warning :: Gerard Argent mention, allusions to the rapey, systematic, psychological abuse and torture he put these kids through. Allusions to the physical torture he put Stiles, Erica and Boyd through, again, please, please, please tread carefully if this will be a problem for you.

Scott both is and isn't used to Stiles being late to pick him up from summer school—he _is_ , because he's used to Stiles, in general, being late for most things, getting hyperfocused elsewhere on something that his brain, for whatever reason, snags on and clicks with; he _isn't_ , because this whole summer they've _both_ been so reluctant to be apart from each other, Stiles has been near fanatical in that respect, tending toward clingy, which Scott is more than alright with, has gotten comfortable with. Which is to say: it's a little more than concerning when he comes out of the school and there's no dingy blue jeep held together with duct-tape and love-magic there to greet him.

Over sixteen increasingly worried texts later and he hears Roscoe clugging down the road, sighs with uninhibited relief, and wonders with vague concern what might've kept the other boy. His answer comes in the form of Stiles tossing him a very full manilla envelope as soon as he clambers into the car.

"I never liked Kate Argent," Stiles grits seethingly, hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel, "and, fuck, I fucking hate her. She deserves hell, she didn't deserve to be killed so _quickly_. Oh," Stiles breathes, and his scent- ripe, tart wildberry bushes blooming stubbornly, pitted against fluff-freeze snow, unforgiving, _growing_ \- sours with mold-rot and brine, honeyed eyes glittering with unshed tears of impotent fury, "she deserved to _suffer."_

"Okay," Scott replies, drawing the word out a little uncertainly, eyebrows furrowing at the vehement tone as he quickly opens the manila envelope to see what's inside and— "Ho-ly _shit."_

Stiles huffs out a humorless laugh, shoves himself forcefully back in his seat before scrubbing his face roughly with his hands. "Yeah." He breathes out, sharp, pained. "I was trying to look into Boyd and Erica's disappearance and I... got distracted."

Scott nods distantly, a warped, numb feeling wracking him as he reads the evidence Stiles has gathered, the _implications_ of it. Eight cases, two before the Hale fire and five after it, always a young teenager- boy or girl, it didn't matter- left to survive in the aftermath of a fire that burned their whole family alive, only the first three having other survivors, every time saw the method becoming more and more perfected, every time the trail and the ability to find proof lessened, but it was _there_ , in his hands, in plain, logical, _stark_ black and white. And that might be the most horrifying thing of all, how clinical it all looks, compiled like this.

Flashes of memory spin around him, Derek being chained up in the burnt out tunnels underneath his house, the way the skeleton of the Hale house smelled of Allison's aunt and something pure, raw, _brittle_ \- like the visceral fear of a small child- for _days_ afterward; how Derek's scent had carried an undercurrent of that, the way the man had almost flinched back, when Peter accosted Scott in the locker room, the rough-starch feeling of the towel around his waist, scorching _agony_ as Peter sunk his claws into the back of Scotts' neck, dragged his unwilling soul through the jagged sharp vestiges of his curdled mind; how the whole warehouse became shrouded, eclipsed by that scent, when Scott held him by the neck, pulled him up, thumbed open his jaw with one clawed hand—

Bile crawls up his throat, and he flings the opened manila envelope away- papers scattering everywhere- to fall out of the jeep, collapse onto his hands and knees on the searing summer sun-blazed blacktop as he retches up everything he's eaten today, stomach twisting itself into unbearably tight knots, pins and needles piercing him in antsy waves, body rejecting everything until he's heaving up air, Stiles kneeling beside him by now, running a hand in soothing circles along his back, brushing his hair away from his eyes, and pulling him, shaking, shivering, trembling, away from the mess when he's finally done, making him rest against Roscoe, saying _something_ , but Scott can't hear him over the buzzing rush in his ears, the dizzy sick-swoop. Willow-bony hands latch onto his, pressing one palm to his own chest- a thundering beat, too fast, too fast, and he dully wonders if it'll kill him- and the other to Stiles'- soft, simple, worried but forced-resting- and Scott tries to follow along, tries to breathe deep instead of shallow, tries to mimic his friend's example.

It takes several raw, shock-drunk moments to find any semblance of calm, and by then their spectacle has, embarrassingly, called the attention of just under a dozen people. "It's okay," he rasps with a weak, flimsy smile at their audience, "I'm fine." Hesitantly, they begin to disperse, and he turns to Stiles, crouched hoveringly before him, pained and fierce, protective and horrified. "I'm _fine,"_ he repeats.

"I don't believe you," Stiles bites, just this side of caustic, a barely concealed whimper festering in the back of his throat. He turns his head to search the immediate area, see the various curious and concerned people moving away from the scene. "Let's go," he says, urgent and careful as he gentles Scott to standing, maneuvers him around the sick and into the backseat of the car, makes him lay down. "Rest," he murmurs, swallows thickly, scratches fingers through Scott's hair and breathes out, shaky, blinking back tears. "We'll be home soon, and then... and then we can talk, okay?"

Scott struggles for a moment, restless, a disgusting, disturbed feeling still creep-tingling in anxious waves underneath his skin, but he manages to nod, still shivering, trembling, _cold_ , and Stiles' eyes rake over him for a moment, helpless, neurotic, but he nods, too, slips away and slams the car-door creakingly shut.

* * *

"What about work?" Scott asks weakly when Stiles pushes him toward the couch, determined to make the boy take care of himself, however hard that goddamned endeavor is proving to be.

"Deaton will understand," Stiles promises, stern. Then, because he already looks fine again- werewolf healing factor working its' magic- and because seeing him like that was _terrifying_ , and, god, he's _still_ shaking: "Do you want me to make you something to eat?"

"No," he croaks, "no. But... I think I need to tell you something. I think I know why Derek's been," he grimaces, "avoiding us."

"Okay?" Stiles leans on the word, rolling it out long and lilting, half frustrated, because his mind, his empathy, is all twisted and churning and confused. He needs... he needs to be able to _do_ something, he feels jittery and frenetic and _wanting_.

Scott bites his lip, huffs, "There were things that happened, with—with Gerard, that I... I didn't want to burden anyone, I didn't... So I didn't say anything, I mean, I said he threatened my mom, but I..."

Stiles sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed, the ghost-sensation of whip-sting, chain-drag burn, arrogant, char-crisp laughter crawling like a swarm of cockroaches within him. He knows _exactly_ what that old man is capable of, why did he think... He knew Allison had fallen prey to manipulation and psychological abuse, he knew that Erica and Boyd, before they disappeared, had been just as tortured as he by the man, but _Scott_. He just... maybe he _had_ known, suspected, maybe he'd just been praying.

"Tell me."

And Scott does. Arduously, horrendously, harrowingly, he presses through every sickening, violating instance, beginning with being _stabbed_ in the middle of the hospital parking lot, and ending with being forced to force Derek to give the geriatric psychopath the Bite. He came up with a plan, along the line, a shit-scared, by the skin of his teeth, last hope at the end of the world improvisation when he scented a death-rot around the man while he was being so horrifically _accosted_ by him. With the help of the good vet, he managed to lace Gerard's meds with mountain ash, poisoning him, taking his end-goal and twisting it against him (Stiles won't fault Deaton for never uttering a word, he's a private guy, and, besides, Scott isn't the only one trusting him to keep secrets).

Stiles exhales, long and slow and shaken, crawls onto the couch to curl up with Scott, be held by him, hold him in return. He isn't going to ask why Scott never told him, the other boy's already said and... Stiles knows. Better than anyone, Stiles knows.

"I'm a horrible person," Scott whispers, ragged, soggy, and distorted with a kind of raw, honest self-loathing, resigned to itself and accepted for what it is, that chills Stiles to the bone.

"No," Stiles nearly whimpers, shakes his head against Scott's chest, hands splayed across his shoulder blades tremble, press, solid. A breath, clinging to his throat with the mist-tight burn of his oncoming tears. "No. Never. You were manipulated by a seventy-something psychopath into doing horrible _things_ , but you are _not_ a horrible _person_ , Scotty. You aren't."

He feels Scott shudder under him as he cradles arms around Stiles' back, tangles their legs together, nuzzles into his hair; neither of them are clean in this, sweat-damp and starch, stale air itch, tear-soaked and snotty, and Stiles wonders if it's some kind of analogy, metaphor, euphemism. "Maybe Gerard forced me into that position, but I still... I still made those choices. And nobody forced me _not_ to tell Derek, he looked so... betrayed—small. He looked so _small_ when he realized, when—" Scott cuts himself off with a sharp, painful, clicking breath, and Stiles closes his eyes against the tears that come, the burn of them, sniffles, tries- even though it's so, _so_ fucking hard right now- to think this through logically.

"Okay," he breathes, wobbly wet-crumble. "Okay. So why didn't you tell him?"

"I— at first, at first it was Allison, like, when the whole thing started, and he wanted me to be his Beta, said he could help me control it and all that stuff, because I knew—I felt like I'd lose her, if I accepted him as my Alpha, but it's—it's more than that, it's..."

"Everything that happened with Peter," Stiles surmises easily, heaving a sigh, "and I probably didn't help much, either. I mean, I haven't trusted the guy from the beginning, you were the one who kept _trying_ with him, and then he throws that all in your face by teaming up with the bad guy—granted, the bad guy was his Uncle, and there were extenuating circumstances, but how were you supposed to trust him, after all that? Especially when it's obvious he's not the most up-front."

"Yeah," Scott huffs. "That's part of the reason I fought him so hard on— I know, now, that he needed three Betas to stabilize his power, but, back then I just thought he was vying for _more power_ , like, he just wanted to escalate and escalate, and the Argents were doing the same thing, and it was just gonna get bigger and bigger and hurt a lot of people. It _did_ hurt a lot of people. And even though he said that he told them everything before he turned them, I just kept thinking about Peter, and what he did to me—"

"Not to mention Sourwolf's _serious_ lack of ability in communication," Stiles interrupts, lifting his head off of Scott's chest to do his best impression of the surly, broody, growly face, and even with the weight of the sobering conversation, his friend manages a slight chuckle, weak, wavering, and rainy, but there, his hand reaching up to weave through Stiles' barely growing hair, nurture-earth eyes glittering, sweet, wet, pitted under far too much darkness.

"I did tell him because he wasn't _my_ Alpha, but there were a lot of reasons why he couldn't be—why he _can't_ be my Alpha."

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, scooches up a little to knock their foreheads together. "And maybe he never _will_ be your Alpha... but he's still someone you..." Stiles groans a little, something vaguely self-deprecating mirthful underneath, trying to find the words. "Neither of you deserved what happened, but maybe both of you deserve a... _conversation?"_

"You think I should talk to him?" Scott asks, half surprised.

"Not _alone_ , but yeah. We need to be more cooperative about this whole Beta-manhunt thing, anyway, and maybe this'll help? I mean, maybe it won't, maybe he won't accept anything you have to say and he'll slam the door in our faces, but..." Stiles takes a cut-off breath, sitting up properly, Scott getting up with him, wiping his face with his palms. "That's his right, y'know? But we can't just leave it like this, I mean, with everything? We just can't. And I'm not about to let you give into this guilt, because if I know you- and I _do_ know you-" Scott huffs out a soft laugh, gifting Stiles with a small, fleeting smile that makes his heart clench, flutter, pleased- "you'll just put it into a very small box, stash it in the back of your mind, and let it _fester_ , you idiot."

"I love you, too," Scott murmurs, still a little sandpaper raspy and water-logged, but miles brighter than he'd been even a moment ago, and Stiles cocks a lop-sided smile at him.

"I know, now c'mon—showers first- you need to brush your teeth, dude, _badly_ \- and then we'll pay our local Mr. Grumpy a visit," Stiles decides as he stands, offering Scott an amiable hand up, which he takes with a bit of a grunt, pulling Stiles into a bear-hug with it, murmuring a, "Thanks, dude. For everything." Before he's off to do as bid.

* * *

It's obvious, when they head over to the loft- and thank _god_ Derek upgraded from the abandoned subway depot, _seriously_ \- that Derek wants nothing more than to retreat in on himself, but Stiles is too stubborn to be having with that shit, and this discussion is a thing that needs to happen. It's also obvious that Isaac, who's been living with the man, is very unwilling to be a part of the drama, which is understandable, and Peter—isn't there. Stiles checked. Twice.

With his serial-killer eyebrows ramped up to eleven, the Alpha asks, "What the hell do you want?"

"Reconciliation, mostly," Stiles answers, only vaguely sardonic, and Derek raises one of those strongly expressive eyebrows.

"I—" Scott starts, clears his throat half roughly, shifts uncomfortably, and Stiles gentles a hand down his friend's arm, soothing. Scott flashes a small smile at him, returns to the matter at hand. "I think I need to... _explain_ some things, because—" he takes a deep breath, his eyes harden like soil met with frost, determined. "Because it's the right thing to do."

Derek's arms cross over his chest in a move that, if Stiles weren't as perceptive, wouldn't seem defensive. A beat, and then he inclines his head in a monochrome, blank-faced, deadpanned move that screams: _'So? You gonna continue that train of thought? Or can I make you leave so I can continue my brooding in peace?'_

Scott clears his throat again, Stiles squeezes his arm supportively, and the explanations begin. They start, this time, with the weird, unstable trust the two had had the first few months, with Derek telling Scott that a Bite he didn't need or want or ask for was a _gift_ , trying to train him- hell, _all_ of the Betas- with _pain_ , when he's older and has more knowledge and power and they're new to this and pain is, you know, painful; with him defecting to Peter's side, after everything ("And, look, I get it, he's family, but it sucked. It just— I thought we were becoming friends, maybe, or something close- and I'm not blaming you, I'm not- but it _sucked."_ ). And then Derek was turning Betas and letting Scott continue believing it was all for power even when that wasn't necessarily true, the Argents were amassing their own forces, both Derek and the Argents were trying to _kill_ their _friend_ ("And Jackson." A look, from both the Alpha and Scott. Stiles shrugs, "What? Jackson isn't our friend."), and it was all spiraling out of control, and in the midst of all this scrambling, Gerard assaults him, threatens his mom, assaults his _mom_ with the kanima, pushes him to be and do things he doesn't want to.

"Which is why I didn't tell you about the plan, why... I can't accept you as my Alpha. But no matter what I shouldn't have handled it like that, and I'm sorry."

Derek shudders a little, eyes fluttering closed. He went from stormy to indecipherable to pale, blood-drained and ill, shaken, as he steps back slightly to let himself lean against the wall, a little too weak to stand on his own. Scott frowns worriedly, sympathetically, mournfully. "Please, don't," Derek mutters, shaking his head. "Don't. It wasn't. You have nothing to apologize for, I. I'm—it's _my_ fault, it's—"

"Nope," Stiles cuts in, because he knows where _that_ particular train is headed. He points at Derek, who's caught off guard enough to let that scraped raw and scoured bleed-burn vulnerable scorch the turbulent seas of his eyes, "Say: Thank you, I promise to do better."

Eyebrows knit, like he's genuinely confused as to why Stiles won't let him heap all the blame on himself. _"Stiles,_ it's—" "Say it, Derek."

Derek narrows his eyes, and Stiles raises his eyebrows, holds his ground, demanding. After a too-silent minute, Derek relents, with a frustrated undercurrent, begrudgingly, "Thank you. I promise to do better." His gaze falls to the floor in the middle, more than a little unsure.

 _"Thank you,"_ Scott breathes, and Derek's eyes shoot up at the pure, unadulterated, childish happy in that sunshine-shimmer voice. Scott grins, wide and beautiful and _blindingly_ bright, marshmallow-fluff, "I promise to do better, too."

Derek blinks blankly for a moment, exhales an explosive breath, and then, decisively, moves on. "There's something I should tell you."

Scott frowns, tilts his head curiously, "What is it? Is something going on?"

"Alphas," he says grimly. "A Pack of them. I think they're the ones who took Erica and Boyd."

Oh, god-fucking-damn it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning :: Minor character death, I try to keep it vague, but still, y'know, be safe.

Stiles comes to Scott around witching hour, chilled, because it's finally starting to get colder in the day, and nearly freezing in the night. His insides feel numb and unstable, _shocky_ , as he climbs the porch steps and shakily tries to slot the key into its' hole. It takes around four tries and a lot of half-sobbed cursing before he manages, and by the time he actually opens the door, Scott's already sleepily making his way down the stairs, "I heard you co—"

The wolf cuts off when he realizes Stiles is crying, notices how badly he's trembling, alert and sobering immediately he rushes the rest of the way down the stairs to check Stiles over, "Hey, hey, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't know, it's stupid, I shouldn't—" He shakes his head, because he _shouldn't_ , he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be bothering Scott like this when they've got so much else to deal with. "I'm sorry, I'm fine. I'm _fine_ , I just—"

"You are _not_ fine," Scott points out with a furiously protective kind of concern, hauling him inside with a hug- and Scott has always given the best hugs, so incredibly warm, the kind of comforting that seeps into your bones, suffuses itself into your soul the moment you breathe his scent in, and deeply, intrinsically _satisfying_ on a base, indescribable level- as he closes and locks the front door behind them. He gives a little squeeze, scruffs what little hair there is to be had atop Stiles' head, and pulls away to hook a finger in the ring of Stiles' collar, tenderly leading him up the stairs and toward his room.

Scott remains quiet when they get to their destination, just asks softly if he maybe wants to kneel, which he _does_ , and then starts arranging the pillow they have for his knees, fixes Stiles' posture when he goes gently down with swift-soft soothing caresses, washes his face delicately with a washcloth, kisses him sweetly on the cheek, sits back to offer a sunshine bird-song smile, the ambience all tickle-light, dissolving sugar, for all that the quiet is still grating, something he wants, _needs_ , to fill.

"It's my dad," he whispers wetly, tilts his head up as Scott stands to watch him with tearful eyes. Scott already knows, without Stiles needing to tell him, that the sheriff has been avoiding his son, trying to figure out the details of all the lies he's been telling, increasingly, increasingly, and their relationship has been cracking because of it, crumbling in places, the very look of its' decrepit disrepair _killing_ him.

Scott makes a sound of sympathy, knuckles under Stiles' chin to angle his head up further, expose the long expanse of his neck, searches his face for any sign of discomfort, worry curling in muddied soil as he paces carefully around Stiles, takes his arms and crosses them behind his back, keeps his position stable. "Do you want to tell him?"

Stiles huffs out an aching breath, rivers spilling down his cheeks, "I don't _know_. What if it puts him in danger? What if—what if he freaks out on us? On _you?_ What if it gets him _killed?"_

Scott returns to standing, a sigh caught in his throat as he comes around again, looks nearly pained to see Stiles as torn up as this. "What if it gets _you_ killed?" Scott whispers, rough, threaded with a terror Stiles knew was there, but has never heard before, and his breath hitches, something new unfurling in his chest, like an ink-droplet on tissue-paper, the color spreading, spidering out.

Because he can imagine it, easily. Gerard almost _had_. And he knows Scott would've been the one, tormented by some sort of inexplicable guilt- because he's so goddamn sure that it's his job to protect _everyone_ \- to tell his dad everything, blaming it all on himself, and how would his dad have reacted? Would he drown himself in the bottle, like he did after Stiles' mom died? Would he accept Scott's grief-induced guilty testimony as truth? Would he _hate_ Scott for this, without Stiles there to see, to protect _either_ of them?

Stiles shudders out a breath, a stunted whine escaping on the tail end of it. "In the morning," he decides, sniffles, looks unsurely, waveringly to Scott. "You'll come with me?"

A smile blooms, incandescent, on his best friend's face, "Of course."

He lets his eyes flutter closed, feels a new kind of exhilaration underneath his skin, a relief and a weight unexpectedly lifted, although there's an undercurrent of anxiety beneath it, bilious, and he knows if he focuses on that for even the barest second, the shadowed nauseous feeling in his stomach will grow, overwhelm him, drag him underneath its' terrible current.

"I don't wanna think anymore," he murmurs, swallows, trembles.

"Okay," Scott whispers, silvery-soft, tempered with the sub-vocal rumble he gets when Stiles is being particularly submissive, like his wolf is helpless to be anything but extraordinarily pleased. He hooks a finger in the ring of Stiles' collar, knuckle at the hollow of his throat, sending shivers up Stiles' spine. With a tug, he lifts him up to his feet, arms still crossed behind his back, his muscles just beginning to feel tension-burn, an incremental feeling that makes Stiles shiver again, drinking it in until he's dizzy with it, yearning for more.

"Safety word?"

"Milkshake," Stiles mutters, lips twitching up a little at the sound of it.

"Back up?"

"Red."

"How are you feeling? _Honestly_ , Stiles."

"Nervous." Stiles shrugs a little, lets himself open his eyes, drink in the sight of Scott in this mode, determined, elegant, _confident_. "Maybe a little desperate."

Scott searches his face, smiles pretty, leads him by the collar to the bed, carefully unwinds Stiles' arms, massages the want to lock out of them easily, returning them to lissome, pliant, before maneuvering him over his legs, bowed, ass in the air, arms pillowing his head on the mattress, fingers clutching the comforter. _This_ , this is the reason why punishments actually meant to _punish_ end up being things like cleaning the house or sitting still, things he actually _hates_ , because, for one thing, pain is... complicated, and Stiles' reactions to it are even more so, in this context.

His thoughts are strained, constant, overflowing and trying to organize themselves all at once, hyper, frenetic, churning. "You're so, so good Stiles," Scott whispers, and it almost feels like a promise, melodious, the flicker of a candle flame.

The sound comes before the sting, loud and overstaying, chaotic clamor, and then sensation sneaks under, sinks in, sears, scours, and a single thread in the tangled jumble is pulled taught, clear, strong. "Such a good boy for me. You don't even know how proud you make me, how thankful I am for you." Scott's hand makes an impact again, the sharp, crisp, saturated feeling fitted amongst a flurry of praise, Scott's other hand still hooked in Stiles' collar, holding him still, contained.

It's so unexpectedly _kind_ , this unraveling, renewal, all scorch-throb _pull_ , like Scott's emptying Stiles of everything that he ever was, sewing him back together clean and ephemeral with room to _breathe_. Opening all the windows in his soul, curtains billowing as the wind dances through, sweeps up the dust and the fear and the insecurities, the endless, overwhelming, untempered march of messy, pandemonious thought, whisks it away with bird-song laughter, honeysuckle lullabies, and he _lets go_. 

He gives himself over completely to the person he has loved in one way or another, always deeply, since he was a child, and he feels young right now, little and held completely, securely, at the mercy, whim, of someone he trusts with so much more than his life. A gasp, and he's eclipsed by raw, uninhibited emotion, weeps almost uncontrollably, unbound, emptied and overfull and fucking _free_. He doesn't have to worry about anything, he doesn't have to think or be or do anything other than _feel_ , answer that he's good when Scott asks, that he wants more, _please, **please**_ , more, all of him pulsing, transcending, climbing, tip-toeing across a precipice with clouds full of milk-silk cream giggles, everything pastel-hued technicolor, glittering, reflective, wind-swept grace, and Stiles gets caught up in the flow of it, floats there, giddy, vivified.

He doesn't know how long it's been, when Scott rests his hand soothingly on the swell of Stiles' ass, the pain leeching slowly away as he asks, "You still with me?"

"Mmm," Stiles sighs, nods a little, and Scott moves his hand up, crawls it to Stiles' side and _tickles_ , startling a flinch and a burst of unexpected, rain-soaked laughter out of him. He looks over his shoulder at the boy, who grins at him, sunny, and melting his heart into utterly sappy goo. "Yes," he grins, lighter than he's been in _weeks_ , "I'm with you."

"Wanna keep going?" Scott asks, tilts his head, indulgent and prepared to accept any answer.

Stiles takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, "No. Thank you." His smile softens, feels deeper, hallowed, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Scott murmurs, grazes a hand delicately across Stiles' cheek, nearly adoring, making Stiles' heart skip a beat and smiling helplessly when it does, _glowing_ , and Stiles swears, if he could, he'd cut this moment out of time and live in it forever.

With hands gentle and strong, firm, Scott moves him so he's laying down on his side, laves at his face with the washcloth until its' clean again, gets them water and food- raspberries and strawberries, sweetened cream, celery and peanut butter, and frozen chocolate- grabs his laptop and pulls up netflix so they can watch something while they cuddle, something to fall asleep to, warm and safe and carefree, cocooned in this overwhelming, unconditional love, everything else can be dealt with _tomorrow._

Tonight is theirs, and it's... it's _good._

* * *

Telling his dad is... oddly cathartic? It's terrifying, and it adds so many new anxieties to the pile, but it also kind of takes some away, and it...

Scott has to show him the proof in the pudding, of course, and there are a lot of tears and frustrations and curses, but then there's hugging, and a seed of trust sewn, and a satiated curiosity, although there is, still, an undercurrent of, "You're grounded," and, "Jesus Christ, kid." But it's kind of a breath of relief, and a little bit like serendipity because Stiles was expecting... he doesn't know. Something worse, something more climactic, not just a, "Thank God you finally told me, you should've told me _sooner_ , but I'm so glad I know, now, so I can _help."_

There's this floaty weightlessness blooming inside his chest, where he'd felt so encumbered before, like he was fighting restlessly against the whole world, relentless, continuous, and with no give, barely any hope. He takes a breath, deep, and his lungs actually _fill_ , no longer so entirely constricted, and he wonders why he was so adamantly _against_ telling the man in the first place. Yes, his father could find himself in more dangerous situations, now, but it's not like the simple act of _telling him_ was going to kill him, and it's not like his regular job comes without danger. It just... it all feels kind of silly now.

And his dad _does_ help, he has more resources to help them figure out who and where these Alphas are, is more capable of looking for Erica and Boyd now that he knows it was a kidnapping instead of a simple case of two kids impetuously running away. He gets just slightly annoyed with having to keep secrets from his deputies, but he manages the conditions of this new lifestyle with an unexpected amount of ease, even reconciles with the fact that _killing_ the Alphas may be the only option, in terms of what to do when they _find_ these motherfuckers. Finagles a meeting with Melissa, Deaton, Derek, and Isaac to discuss the finer details of everything, now that he's in the know, and to ream a few of the adults for not taking more responsibility and/or not dealing with the responsibilities they _had_ in the best ways.

By the end of it, Melissa is properly chagrined, Derek is expected at the sheriff's station on monday to apply as a Deputy, has a therapist's business card- for both him, _and_ Isaac- and the good doc, the sheriff, and Stiles all have it in their heads to go looking for some sort of location spell—but not before pizza.

"Pizza?" his dad asks incredulously.

"Well, yeah. I mean, this was, like. Our first _official_ Pack meeting- even if not all of us are technically Pack-" though that's something that seems to be steadily changing, and considering the course of things, might be furthered by this new change in dynamic- "I think pizza and a movie is literally _required."_

Isaac raises his hand vaguely, "I'll take a meat-lovers'?"

His dad groans, but he's already pulling out his phone to make the call.

"Do I get any say in this?" Derek asks.

"Not if all you're going to do is push people away and brood, Sourwolf," Stiles answers, a little more seriously than he entirely means to, and Derek blinks, a little surprised.

"Hawaiian."

Scott bites back a smile, raising his eyebrows at the man as Stiles tries not-so valiantly to stifle a snicker in the background. "Hawaiian?"

"Shut up," Derek growls, gruff. "And I'm picking the movie."

Considering his choice ends up being Monty Python and The Holy Grail, no one's complaining. Stiles is just surprised Deaton actually _stays_ the whole way through. Happy, but surprised.

* * *

There were a lot of reasons why Scott held off on kissing Stiles. It wasn't like the idea was unappealing, and, as far as he's concerned, as long as he loves the person, their gender doesn't matter, but he's _always_ loved Stiles—they've been best friends since they were kids, and, up until recently, he'd still been pining over Allison. It took more than it should've to realize their break up was _real_ , no take backs, time to just be friends, to learn how to love her platonically, for all that it was complicated and a little bittersweet.

If... if he and Stiles became more than just friends, he wanted to really think about it, think it through, and he didn't want it to be a rebound in _any_ sense. He wants it to be... long-term, and it's a decision, a commitment, that he didn't—couldn't make in the heat of the moment. He's always thought that he and Stiles would grow old together, no matter what, and he'd always known that he'd love him until he met his end, and this, honestly, wouldn't be that much different, logically, but _emotionally?_

He knows, already, that Stiles has gone from loving him as just a friend, to loving him in this absolute, _romantic_ way, unconditional and yearning, but explicitly accepting of whatever Scott's boundaries may be, and it's... kind of intense, especially when it's so much more _selfless_ than Scott is used to from Stiles. Selfless loyalty? Stiles has that in _spades_ , but his care has always been a little different.

And it's kind of scary, scarier than he expected, letting himself fall for Stiles like this, letting it all change so irrevocably, even more than it already _has_. But he can see it, so _vividly_ , being with him, going to college with him, moving in together, pursuing dreams, maybe even having kids, and it's so _easy_ to see his life with Stiles, their lives _together_. It's exhilarating, exciting, and, suddenly, it becomes the only thing he wants, becomes something he is genuinely _desperate_ for.

He would never be able to imagine a life without Stiles, even the thought of it terrifies him, but a life in love with him? Not only can he imagine it, he thinks he might really, really _want_ it.

It's funny, that this epiphany comes after exhaustive days researching tracing spells and foraging for the ingredients for them, that it hits him full force when they're both in the woods with Deaton and Isaac, Stiles facetiming Lydia just to bicker with her, covered in mud and foliage and up to his knees in swamp water, the beginnings of autumn tempering the air with frost, making the Preserve more oranges and reds than greens, even though the sun is still beating harshly down upon them. It's funny, or maybe it's actually perfect, considering who they are, considering everything that's brought them here, maybe it's just... _perfect_.

He trudges forward a little, gentles Stiles' phone out of his hand, and, when he turns to look at Scott questioningly, kisses him, sound and sweet and chaste, a gentle press, caress, breaths mingling, heartbeats increasing, and he half wonders how such a small thing can be _monumental_ , explosive, like champagne fizz in his veins and something effervescently ephemeral blooming wildly in his soul. He lingers in it for a second, before pulling back with a small, private smile, and Stiles looks nothing less than stunned, face soft-slack with surprise before one of the _prettiest_ smiles he's ever seen his best friend wear glides across his face, gradual, breathless, _floored_ and beyond ecstatic. He barely has time to think before the other boy is dive-bombing him, arms around his neck and lips on his, knocking them both laughingly, delightedly, into the shallow swamp water, their teeth clicking as they smile through the kiss, until he nips at Stiles' lips with intent, tastes his cinnamon spice, threads fingers through steadily growing hair, goes deeper when Stiles moans.

This time, when they part, Stiles is panting and dazed, his lips look kiss-bruised and spit-slick, and they're both covered in muddy-sludge, any hopes he had for Stiles' phone momentarily forgotten.

Isaac starts clapping, and they both look over at the other teen and the veterinarian, the former seeming sardonic and highly unimpressed while the latter seems vaguely amused and fondly indulgent.

"If you two are done with your little swamp bath, can we get back to looking for these rare-ass mushrooms?" Isaac calls, impatient, and Stiles snorts a giggle as Scott calls back:

"Yeah, sure. Yep. Sorry." He moves to stand, dragging Stiles up with him, the two boys grinning at each other and sharing one more kiss, swift but _deeply_ meaningful, before returning to their quest.

* * *

It comes to a head at the very end of summer, they _finally_ find a tracking spell that works, and it leads them to, of all places, an abandoned bank.

Luckily, Allison and her dad are officially _back_ , now, and Allison's sufficiently thrown herself into overprotective huntress mode—because, even if Erica once tried to kill her, even if _all_ the Betas tried to kill their friends in the name of getting rid of the kanima, she's come to accept that their actions, Derek's, and her own were made out of stress, grief, and guilt; a bunch of mistakes all piled on top of each other in a high-stress situation, no one's hands are clean, here, not even, she's learned, her mother's. Seriously, she had a whole speech prepared, it was kind of beautiful, and by the end of it, Scotty looked _extremely_ proud, Derek looked utterly gobsmacked, and it was obvious she wanted to help, and that her dad, begrudgingly, did, too.

Between the Argents, Melissa, and Deaton, everyone's stocked up: his dad's got a gun full of wolfsbane bullets, Stiles has a steel bat coated in a potent cocktail of wolfsbane and mistletoe with a mountain ash rune that essentially deters it from being used against friendlies (so, basically, if they're in the thicket and Stiles swings too close to Scott or Derek, the bat will automatically repel against them, it's actually pretty awesome) and low-level magical training under his belt, Scott, Isaac, and Derek have been training (in a much more healthy, democratic, _safe_ environment), honing their wolves and their more human capacity to fight, Allison has her knives, along with her bow and arrows, every arrowhead covered in the same lethal solution as his bat, Chris has his guns and his crossbow, and Melissa and Deaton are closeby in the back of some van Derek rented with, well, pretty much everything and anything they could _possibly_ need to patch up humans and/or werewolves in the heat- or aftermath- of battle.

But there's that saying, you know? no plan survives an encounter with the enemy.

They do better than he expects, in the long run, but the Alphas have two unexpected players—one of their hostages is Derek's long-lost, thought to be very, very _dead_ little sister, and one of their allies is a Druid, an Emissary, like Deaton (and it took all goddamn _summer_ for Stiles to suss that out of the good doctor, where one of the Alphas gives it away for her, here, in under five minutes with off-handed monologue-y exposition, it's a fucking insult, is what it is). The Druid's mountain ash is an easy thing for Stiles to deal with while the wolves, hunters, and his dad are all at each other's throats, the hecatolite safe cum torture room, however, is not, and even after all but two of the Alphas have been killed- the blind one to Allison, Derek, and his dad, the foot-fetish barbie to her dad, held up and mortally wounded by Scott, the hulky, muscle-bound dude by Stiles and Isaac, who were _also_ trying to deal with the crazy Druid lady, while the twins with the weird, temporary, pokemon evolution powers managed to run the fuck away- they end up having to corral these near feral kids, who they _do **not** want_ to injure, toward the rapey-rental ("Would you stop calling it that?!" "All it needs is **FREE CANDY** painted on the side, Derek, I swear to god!" "Is now _really_ the best time to be arguing about this?") so that Deaton and Melissa can inject them with a shit-tonne of ketamine, because Stiles was smart enough to suggest they bring it along with their veritable pharmacy, and, hey, look, lessons learned via kanima actually _helped._ Hooray.

Melissa's standing over Boyd, the injection gun still in her hand, looking over to where Erica and Cora are both knocked out with a kind of drawn out, sympathetic sigh, "They're going to need so much therapy."

"Werewolves are _real,"_ the sheriff replies with an almost scoff, "we're _all_ going to need therapy."

"In that regard," Deaton chimes, "I think I know someone who might be able to help."

Which is how they learn that Ms. Morrell is Deaton's sister, and- since he really is hoping to _stay_ retired- willing to take over as acting Hale Emissary, if Derek's down for that—the rest is mostly paperwork, discussing getting Erica, Boyd, and Cora some version of alright, reintroducing all three of them to society as safely as possible, Derek- although it takes a lot of Stiles' dad coaxing him to actually _use his words_ \- explaining how important Pack bonding will be during that time (basically, lots of hanging out and puppy-piles, which, as far as Stiles is concerned, they were planning to do already, anyway), Derek, Stiles' dad, and Chris hanging behind to take care of the bodies, Melissa and Deaton taking the three Betas to the veterinary clinic, Allison giving Scott a mostly not-awkward hug before offering Isaac a ride.

"That was... an _ordeal,"_ Stiles comments as he and Scott head toward Roscoe, planning to go home themselves. "You alright?"

Scott offers him a dim sort of smile, sucks in a deep breath, "It was hard, but... I think I will be? I mean, with this, what I did to Gerard, what I was planning to do to Peter—I don't know, man, I feel like I keep..." He trails off with a sigh that _bleeds_ every horrible insecurity. One that whispers _monster_ , cruel and constant.

Stiles hooks his arm in Scott's, murmurs, "You did good in there—we all did. We _saved_ them."

Scott huffs, and his smile looks a little less plastic, fake, shallow, "Yeah."

"And it seems like that vacation did Allison a world of good."

"Yeah," Scott repeats, pulls them to a halt just outside of the jeep, turns Stiles toward him, leans up the slight inch it takes to kiss him, warm, soft, licking into his mouth when Stiles opens for him, tasting, humming, pulling away only far enough to rest their foreheads together when they part. "Is that something you're worried about? Allison coming back?"

"Maybe a little. I don't want to be, and I trust you, it's just... you two were..."

"In love?" Scott presses, and Stiles makes a sound not unlike a whine, but nods. "I still love her," he confesses, "but it's already... different. I want to be her friend, I want to be her _best friend_ , but I want." A kiss, nipping, teasing, "To be." Another, slower, deeper, _"Your."_ He ducks down to nip at Stiles' jaw, eliciting a shiver and a stifled moan—because while they're a good distance away from the parental units and Alpha still milling about, they're not _that_ far, "Boyfriend."

Stiles bursts into giggles, even as he wraps his arms around Scott's back, folds into him, more delighted than he has any right to be. "Please tell me you realize how _cheesy_ that was."

Scott shrugs, presses his cold nose into Stiles' neck, just under his collar, breathes in deep, rumbles out something satisfied and pleased, shrugs slightly, "You deserve cheesiness, dude, get used to it. You also deserve a shower, we both smell like, well, _gore."_

"Ew," Stiles grimaces, pulling back to drag Scott- who just throws his head back and laughs, suddenly a ball of sunlight-cheer and good humor- by the hand toward the passenger door, opening it for the other boy and ushering him inside with a, "Why didn't you tell me sooner, man? that's _so_ gross."

To which Scott replies by simply leaning out of his seat and giving Stiles a quick, smiling peck, his eyes sparkling, lit up by the moonlight, silken rich-earth, crinkled around the edges, puppy-dog adoring, "I love you."

"I love you, too, you dork," Stiles grins, helpless, before shutting the door for him and rounding the car to drive them home.

* * *

It's october, the first october they're _really_ spending together since the whole _werewolf_ thing, the first october since the _friends to lovers_ thing, and Stiles wakes up in Scott's bed, naked and the kind of cold that's comfortable, like the kiss of something crisp-clean frost against his skin, but staying surface level, not sinking in, and, under the comforter, clean and secure, he can feel content with it for now, although he knows as soon as he gets up, starts moving, all he'll crave is heat. He feels vaguely achey in all the good, satisfying ways, and a tiny thrill travels up his spine that he gets to have this, _keep_ it, hold all this beautiful stardust light in his hands and be _blessed_ enough to be capable of looking, touching, without burning, crushing, because it's so, _so_ fucking delicate.

And it's worth it, God, it's worth _everything_ , it's even, as terrifying as it is, worth the conversation he knows is going to come, eventually, about the scars that stain his skin, ugly things that Scott still kisses, caresses, sews the seeds of _wonder_ and _gorgeous_ into with every word, every touch, all of it an absolution, all of it something Stiles grasps onto, greedy, indulges himself, for now, in Scott's acceptance of his trembling, weeping silence in regards to it. He has a feeling his friend has already guessed, and that he's already begun to think himself at fault, somehow, and it's _that_ , more than anything, that pushes him to want to talk about it, confront it, no matter how devastating it might be—although he has absolutely _no doubt_ that they'll get through it, together.

But not today.

Because today is the third week since they rescued the Betas, the second week since Scott and Stiles have _officially_ , properly, joined Derek's Pack, the first week that everything's felt- for the most part, at least- _settled_.

He stretches out languidly on the mattress, arches up with a yawn, accepting the chilled morning awakedness and the slow-soft, rainy, introspective sort of ambiance it brings, the tender-quiet that comes with most of the birds having found someplace warmer, dryer, to spend the rest of autumn, the oncoming winter. It takes barely a moment for Scott to come through the door with a giant, adorable grin on his stupid face, holding a mug of the coffee hot-cocoa mix with marshmallows and whipped cream he knows Stiles is pretty much fucking _addicted_ to around this time of year.

"I heard you wake up," he murmurs, grinning wider, all dimples and crinkle-sparkle eyes, when Stiles makes grabby hands for the drink. "If you'd taken any longer I would've had to wake you up myself; school's in, like, thirty minutes."

"Ugh," Stiles groans, takes the mug, hauls Scott down toward him for the sake of bodyheat, his boyfriend allowing it with a snort, shaking his head, but suffused with an utterly fond sort of happy that Stiles just _has_ to kiss, tangling their bodies together, holding the cup up so as not to spill it, "can't we just skip? It's so _cold."_

"No," Scott tells him seriously, muffled between their lips as Stiles reaches over him to put the mug on the night-stand, straddling him with the move. "We _can't_ , ugh, Stiles, we really, really can't. Our attendance records are _so_ bad, and I really want to be a better student this year. C'mon, dude."

Stiles sighs, leaning over the other boy with his hands on either side of his head and his knees bracketing his hips, clad in nothing but his collar and the blankets that still smell of them, of musk and sex and cum. "Fine," he relents, leans down to suck a biting mark just above Scott's collarbone, for all that it fades, healing, almost immediately, it still makes his lover groan, buck, whine helplessly for more. "But you're taking me pumpkin shopping after school lets out, right?"

"Right," Scott breathes dazedly, and Stiles smirks at him, half sheepishly, kisses him sound.

"Sorry for teasing. Thanks for the coffee."

Scott smiles, brighter than all the stars in the night sky combined, Stiles _swears_. "'S'alright," he shrugs, "I might punish you for it later."

"I... am totally cool with that." He leans down to kiss him again, a quick peck before he's jumping off the bed and quickly grabbing his pajamas, scrambling to put them on before Jack Frost makes his teeth start chattering. He rummages around for a change of clothes, downs the coffee quicker than he'd like to- as much as he wishes he could savor it, thirty minutes isn't a lot of time- kisses Scott one more time, because he can't fucking help himself, shares the sugary-bitter taste with an, "I love you," steals another, deeper, licking, moaning kiss, asks: "Do you want a ride?"

Because he doesn't technically need one, since he saved up all summer and actually managed to get himself that bike.

"Only if you won't make me late," his lover returns, half cocky-smug, half teasing, and Stiles groans.

"Alright, alright," he mutters, faux-grouchily, "I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying." (Although he _says_ that, he still jogs back even after he's halfway down the hall to steal just one— two— _three_ more kisses, Scotty offering up breezy, angelic, wind-chime laughter in return.)

* * *

They end up at the loft at around ten pm, commandeering Derek's kitchen and Derek himself along with most of the other wolves, and Allison, turning the carving and gutting and cooking into a group activity that will no doubt last the week, longer, if they end up buying more pumpkins. It's different, from what they used to do, but _everything's_ different, their lives have fundamentally changed, _they've_ changed, their relationships, with each other, with everyone around them, have changed, and they're getting older, growing up.

It's... kind of scary, Stiles isn't going to lie, but then he looks up from hands messy with the dough he's mixing, sees Derek actually fucking _smiling_ , Allison and Isaac getting closer, opening up to each other, Erica and Cora and Boyd huddled close to their Alpha, trying to start a food-fight with pumpkin guts and mostly succeeding because Derek is a total softie when it comes to them, when it comes to _all_ of them—he tries to hide it, but it's a losing battle at this point. And he knows things are still in flux, things could still get dangerous, worse than dangerous, he worries about Lydia ( ~~and Jackson~~ ) constantly, out of his periphery, he worries about Peter and wherever the hell he ran off to, if he'll come back to bite them in the ass, but, but _this_ , right now? This feeling of Pack and family and _potential?_

His eyes light on Scott, then, catch, as his best friend in the whole fucking the world, the person he loves with his entire heart, trusts with his entire being, gives into such a bright, hopeful, inspiring, _lovely_ smile that Stiles is helpless to do anything but smile back, warm, _whole_ , and it's _okay_. Whatever happens next...

It'll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW :: Regarding the handwavey tag, you may've noticed that the druid I gave the Alpha Pack _isn't_ Morrell. Yeah, that was on purpose, and just a general, stubborn-headed, fuck canon handwave, lol. Also, if you were wondering, Jackson is in london, and Lydia decidedly flew in the face of everything, got emancipated, got an early scholarship _you're a genius so you can skip high school_ ride to pretty much any college in the world, and she chose london so she could try to pursue her relationship with Jackson.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic!! Happy October!!!! ♥♥♥


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